


Foundations

by Semira



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arguing, Big Brother Dean, Blood, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilty Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Visions, Season/Series 11 Speculation, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semira/pseuds/Semira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean shoves the gun into his waistband and runs out when he hears the scream.</p><p>He's expecting looming Darkness and wild-eyed zombies. He's expecting mass-death and cars crashed and a cityscape on fire.</p><p>Somehow, what he sees is a lot worse: the sky is clear, everyone is perfectly human, and... Sam is on the pavement, on his side, limbs jerking and spine arching.</p><p><strong>In other words...</strong> <em>Dean avoids Sam's every attempt to talk about things after the Darkness is released, finally boiling over and lashing out at Sam. Sam, though, has more to worry about than the darkness.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Foundations

The first time it happens, Sam can almost make himself believe it's a coincidence. Sleep hasn't come easy to him since the Darkness was released, after all. He knows that every lost life is on his hands. Each soul the Darkness warps, each empty town left in its wake—that's his fault.

It's no wonder, really, that he falls to sleep against the window of the Impala after three days of almost no sleep, three days of outrunning the infected in silent towns and looking into the eyes of the people whose lives he ruined.

The second time it happens, he's just eaten a big lunch, and it's the afternoon. Everyone knows that daytime naps bring the most vivid dreams. The headache he has after waking up is caused by dehydration and lack of sleep, helped along by the fact that the aches and bruises he sustained in the fight with Dean—not really Dean, he tells himself; not _all_ Dean—have still not healed.

The images, fading from his mind now but almost too vivid to be just a dream, are surely nothing to worry about. Dreams can be vivid.

He bolts awake from this particular dream with a persistent ringing in his ears and a desperate, whistling gasp like he hasn't breathed in ages.

Dean just stares as Sam's fingers scrabble at the dashboard, as if to push something away.

As soon as he's aware of his surroundings, Sam consciously pulls himself back, making himself as small as he can.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and doesn't know or care if Dean actually hears it.

Dean has been strange since they left that Mexican restaurant. He hasn't cast any blame yet, but they both know it's Sam's fault. He barely touches Sam, never looks at him, and _God forbid_ they actually talk about this.

Sam catches a moment of bare concern before Dean looks back at the road. Sam squints out the windows, head throbbing in time to the thrum of rubber on pavement, and Dean waits about seven tenths of a mile before he looks back over, squinting like he's constipated, and rasps out, “Y'all right, Sammy?”

A part of Sam wants to complain about the nickname, especially now that Sam's getting laugh lines around his eyes, but a part of him needs it, because "Sammy" has always been the Sam that Dean needs, and Sam has almost given up on being that for him anymore.

“I'm fine,” he whispers, and they cross state borders before either of them speaks again.

\- oOo -

It happens a few more times, and it gets to a point—what with the rare and broken sleep and the niggling guilt—where he can hardly stand food. Dean notices but tries not to say much about it. Twice, Dean says he's full and shoves the mutilated, squished last quarter of a bacon cheeseburger at Sam, which is just a few steps away from soul-selling in the Dean Winchester book of self-sacrifice.

Sam can't stomach the thought of taking even a small bite of the burger; Dean withdraws it both times and eats it with gusto approaching violence, and he doesn't look at Sam. Both times, Sam apologizes. He has a lot to apologize for lately and yet nothing of substance, because every time the subject comes up, Dean shuts down.

Doesn't matter. Sam is tired. He doesn't have the energy to think about this stuff. Waking up and going through the motions takes enough out of him.

When Sam startles awake out of short naps, there's always a sense of the dream lingering in his mind. Call him crazy, but it almost feels like someone is trying to talk to him, but the voice is deafening and wrong, and he can never make out the words.

Things begin to settle back into a stilted, plastic version of normalcy, and even though keeping up the facade takes almost more energy than he (than either of them) can expend, it's all they know to do.

\- oOo -

If anything is true with the Winchesters, it's this: when things break, they break spectacularly.

Sam is exhausted (there's a _presence_ in his dreams, a voice, and it's driving him mad and stealing his rest), and he's not ready for it when Dean storms in and says, “Where are you at on the research about this thing, Sammy? You've been at it for weeks and we've got nothing.”

Dean, fresh from what seems to have been an interesting but unfulfilling interview, if the faint smear of nude lipstick on Dean's neck and collar and the scowl of the sexually frustrated is any indication. Last Sam saw, Dean had been talking with a bereaved young woman who lost her uncle to the Darkness. As far as Sam can tell, his efforts didn't even get him past first base.

So Dean blows into the room and complains like he's the only one who's been tirelessly researching, but it's not like there's much to find, even back in the bunker.

He doesn't think before he responds. “Well, Dean, it would be a lot easier to research if you hadn't killed the _only living authority_ on the Darkness.” Sam's shoulders and neck ache like he spent the whole day shouldering the Impala, muscles knotted and tight, head throbbing with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. He can barely see straight, and he's _so fucking done_ with pussyfooting around these issues. The only way they're getting back to normal is if they talk about this.

“Yeah, Sammy, and who was it, huh, who let the Darkness out in the first place? Went behind my back to do it? Who was that?”

Sam growls and stands to his full height, staring Dean right in the eye, and the frustration and pain that have been simmering for days all come out in a bitter rush. “I figured out a way to get rid of the _Mark_ , Dean, because you gave up. Someone had to do it.”

“Someone didn't. No one did! I was _fine_ with what was happening, Sam. I was okay with it. You remember that, how pissed you were when I didn't let you just die, wouldn't let you make your own goddamn choice? Where'd your righteous anger go, Sam? So I don't get to let an angel heal you, but you can just go and do this shit without asking me? Without telling me where you were going?”

Dean's words slam into Sam as if they have physical weight to them, and bile churns in his gut as he remembers Gadreel, the confusion and the helplessness, the chunks of time missing. He sees holes where Kevin's eyes used to be, _feels_ the insignificant casing of the human skull beneath his own fingers. He remembers the smell of burning flesh, remembers turning away, screaming inside his own mind. (And it's always there, the blame. _You could best Lucifer in a fight for your own mind, but not a simple angel? You could have stopped it, if you were strong enough.)_ He's not sure anymore how much of it is memory and how much is nightmare.

Sam doesn't realize how badly he's shaking until the bulky hotel chair skitters across the floor behind him. There are so many things he needs to say, but the words get stuck on the knot of panic in his throat. Soon, though, building anger roars through him, helping him breathe again, and he manages to rasp, “That's—it's not—” He stops, composes himself. “It's _nothing_ like what you did. It may—you can say I was wrong, but I made _my_ choice, Dean. I didn't make your choice for you and your body. I made my own choice. We all did.”

Dean is backing up, straightening his shoulders and crossing his arms. A quick glance shows that his expression is shut-down, empty, but his teeth are gritted, eyes darting around the room.

“How about Charlie, then?” Dean says.

Sam actually chokes at the remembrance.

Sensing weakness, Dean moves in. “She made her choice, too? Chose to die and everything, did she?”

Sam shakes his head, forcing out, “I didn't...” but his excuses seem inadequate and flimsy, and he swallows the words. “No,” he says instead. “She just... I just...”

He can't talk about this right now. His body shakes like he'll float away any second but is almost too heavy to move.

“You can't say anything, Sam, can you? That's because you _know_ —”

“Dean—” he starts, but he doesn't even know where to go from there. The logical part of him is able to argue culpability, but the rest of him is having trouble believing that it isn't his fault. He's already hollowed out a place for Charlie in the long list of people he's screwed over.

He shakes his head, grabs his jacket, and makes it to the door.

Dean's still talking, tone growing more and more intense, _you wanted to talk about this, didn't you? Well here we are, we're talking—_ but he doesn't have the patience for it. He opens his mouth to say something as he twists the doorknob, but then he just shrugs, opens the door, and slips out.

The sun is well on its way to the western horizon, but it's still bright. The light hasn't quite mellowed with evening, and a handful of people are soaking the day's last rays in by the motel pool. Sam can smell the chlorine from here.

A couple of kids careen past him on small bikes with tassels on the handlebars, and a big family huddles around the trunk of a minivan, pulling out Walmart bags full of barbecue supplies.

Sam thought getting a bit of fresh air might help him focus, but the voices and sounds around him feel even more distant than before, staticky and delayed, distorted like they're coming at him through a tin-can phone.

It all starts to feel a little less real.

Pain is building in his skull, ratcheting up the ever-present ringing in his ears, and he _feels_ a presence.

The world starts to flicker and blur around him as the pain builds.

He should have recognized this feeling: the feeling of a vision bearing down on him with all the subtlety of a freight train. It's similar to how it was before, but it's still different enough to scare him.

He has less than a second to try to find something to brace himself against before the ringing explodes to fever pitch with slicing, white-hot pain—and then he's out.

\- oOo -

Dean snorts through his nose when Sam steps out the door. Typical. Sam has been pushing Dean to talk for ages, and now that Dean wants to talk, he can't take it. Dean runs his tongue over his teeth and finds them fuzzy and foul with bar snacks and beer.

He was getting way too angry back there. He knows he was being unfair, but this whole thing is _huge_ and there are no road signs. He shouldn't have let his stress get to him. He knows that, but...

Sometimes Sam can just be so infuriating. He's been absent, lately, ignoring Dean's attempts to figure out what's wrong, and his unproductive (but pleasurable) interview with Shannon left him feeling off-kilter.

He strides into the bathroom on autopilot and brushes some of the gunk off his teeth. Nothing like minty-fresh breath to help him get a handle on things.

He's spitting greenish foam into the sink when he hears the first cry.

His mind immediately jumps to the Darkness, and his hand hesitates over his gun, because these are people—he and Sam have talked about how they can't just kill them. They have to try to save them.

He shoves the gun into his waistband anyway before he rushes out.

He's expecting looming blackness and wild-eyed zombies. He's expecting mass-death and cars crashed and a cityscape on fire.

Somehow, what he sees is a lot worse.

The sky is clear, everyone is perfectly human, and... Sam is on the pavement, on his side, limbs jerking and spine arching.

The age-old fear floods through him, and Dean rushes over, doing a quick triage to make sure Sam isn't hurt, except for the obvious.

There's a little bit of blood in his hair on the right side of his skull—probably hit himself on his way down—and his nose is bleeding like it's some sort of race.

“Christ,” Dean mutters, lifting Sam's head off of the dirty pavement and bracing it on his hands as Sam trembles through whatever's happening. Warm blood from Sam's nose slickens his palms and gets smeared all over Sam's face.

Behind him, someone's shouting about calling 911, and Dean doesn't even have the presence of mind to tell them to stop.

Without warning, Sam's hands lash up to his head, clawing at his ears like he might be able to remove them, and a sound wrenches from his throat, low and primitive—an animal cry of pain.

Dean's shaking pretty bad, too, when the fit or whatever it is finally stops.

Sam comes back slowly, whimpering and wrapping his hands around his ears.

He spends a few moments just rocking and making broken noises, but then Dean's leaning over him, cupping his face with the blood-slick fingers of one hand while he tears a red handkerchief from his pocket with the other.

“Sam?” he says. “Sammy, wake up and listen to me. Tell me what's going on so we can fix this, huh?” He doesn't say _sorry_ for what he said in the motel room. There will be time for that later.

“Dean...” Sam mumbles, eyes far away. “'W'zzz,” he starts, but then shakes his head and tries again as Dean mops blood from his face and neck. “Wazza...” He swallows, a dry click.

“Water,” Dean yells. “Someone get me some water!”

It's the least of their problems, really, but when Dean thinks about it, he can't remember the last time he saw his little brother eat or drink anything.

A teenage girl skids to a halt with a flimsy paper motel cup filled with water, and Sam drinks, not seeming to care that blood from his lips and nose have stained the water pink.

“It was a vision,” Sam starts.

 _That's_ the last thing Dean wants to hear. It's been a long time, but he remembers everything that followed, remembers how much it messed Sam up. “Sammy...” And maybe Sam's mistaken. Dean rattled Sam's head pretty damn bad before he lost the Mark, and Sam looks like he's been having a lot of headaches lately.

A low-key part of Dean has been wondering if he broke Sam's head. “Sam, I don't think...”

Sam shakes his head and sits up, nearly falling twice before he manages to sit by locking his elbows and gripping his knees. “No, Dean.” he says, and his eyes are glowing with a sort of peace Dean doesn't think he's ever seen. “You don't get it. I'm fine.”

“Sure you are,” Dean mutters, gesturing to the pool of dark blood on the pitted asphalt and the way Sam's whole body sways with the attempt to keep him upright. Dean reaches over to wrap an arm around his shoulder and steady Sam against his side.

He keeps hiking his shoulders up to rub at his ears, too.

“You hearing okay?” Dean asks. “You keep, uh... doing this thing...”

Sam smiles. “They're just ringing a bit still,” he admits. “Dean, listen—”

“Nah, man, we're waiting for this ambulance or whatever and getting you checked out. I'm not gonna let it be my fault that you died from an aneurysm or, like, your brain exploding or something.”

He can already hear the sirens coming from far off.

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam says, in that take-no-shit sort of way that has had everyone jumping to do his bidding since he was six.

Dean turns to face Sam, frowning when he realizes that blood is still dripping lazily from one nostril. He reaches out to wipe it away, but Sam shakes his head and wriggles away, wiping the blood onto his own sleeve.

“Dean,” he says, and his tremulous smile, hopeful and weightless and absolutely earnest, gets Dean right down to his bones. “Dean, this vision was from God. I heard His voice,” Sam says, dream-like. “He says he's going to help us.”

Dean pulls Sam close and bites his lip against illogical tears, because maybe Sam still believes God gives a shit about him and is out there somewhere, but Dean's still not so sure he's not some huge, heavenly hoax. He is sure, though, that his brother is hurting.

Dean tamps down on his immediate urge to contradict Sam, breathing deep and trying to focus.

The world is fucked up beyond all recognition (what else is new?), but this one thing, Dean knows how to deal with. He has a foundation to build on. Maybe Sam _is_ telling the truth—maybe it's finally their time for a lucky break. Dean will figure that out later. Right now, he'll make sure Sam's okay, and they'll build from there.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be AU in a matter of weeks, but it's what I want to see happen. I know that all the loose ends in this story are not 100% tied up, but I think the conclusion points them in the right direction: there's no easy fix to the rifts in their relationship, but open-mindedness and willingness to listen are a good place to start. This is for [rules23](http://rules23.tumblr.com), who requested a fic with visions!Sam and gave me the option of setting it in season 11. When I heard spoilers for the new season and learned that Sam might experience _some sort of_ visions again, I couldn't help going with this idea. If you'd like, feel free to drop by [my stuff on Tumblr](http://semirahrose.tumblr.com/tagged/my-stuff) for more fic (mini fics I haven't posted here), a ton of SPN character analysis meta, and lots of my graphics and sketches (mostly of Sam).


End file.
